


I’ll See You At The Gates

by radiodurans



Category: Artist RPF, BBC Radio 1 RPF, Harry Styles (Musician)
Genre: Infidelity, Italy, M/M, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27612874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiodurans/pseuds/radiodurans
Summary: Harry Styles and his “artist friend” go to Italy.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Nick Grimshaw, Harry Styles/Original Male Character, Nick Grimshaw/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look it’s my first post-testosterone WIP! Sorry for not posting much my life has been on fire. But I am here and I’m back! Yay! I was so captivated by the concept of Harry and an artist friend in Italy alone in his Vogue profile that I just had to write about it. Sorry that it’s a WIP I just wanted to post something really badly.
> 
> A side note - I have elected to change the name of the person in the profile to an original male character because I have decided that the artist mentioned is not Known Enough as a public figure for me to feel comfortable writing him with the original name. Sorry to readers who may become confused since I changed it! Nothing else about the story will change and the person in the story was basically an OMC anyway.
> 
> Title from Gates by Tyler Glenn.

He gets the text when he’s in the studio, squinting at a troublesome stroke of pink. It’s always a gamble to break his train of thought but – _buzz!_ Another one comes in and his choice in the matter evaporates. A double text often means a message from his wife that’s about something important. He’s trying to get better about answering her promptly, because he hates himself a little when he feels them sliding into typical husband-and-wife gender roles. They’re both artists; they should be better than that.

Pietro wipes his hands on his smock and walks over to the stool where his phone is resting. The screen is still lit up with the fresh message, so he sees the sender right away. His stained hands shake as he picks up the phone in a way that makes him feel terribly guilty. He’s supposed to be over this now that he’s married.

_What are you up to?_

_Do you want to go to Italy?_

Another buzz.

_This is H, by the way._

Pietro huffs out a laugh that makes his heart ache. Harry always remembers that Pietro is terrible at matching names to contacts in his phone. He doesn’t know that Harry is one of the few he’s had saved for years. One of many tidbits better left unshared.

 _Have to ask my wife,_ he types back.

Dot dot dot. Dot dot dot. Dot dot dot.

_I already did. She says it’s okay as long as we bring lots of masks._

Hm.

_Why would you ask Jill before you ask me?_

Agonizing, these dots. He sends an emoji – a raised eyebrow – to fill the dead air.

_Saw you had an exhibit lined up for October. Thought about how you’ve been locked up. Figured you were driving her crazy with artist brain. Really, it’s a gift to her._

Winky face with tongue stuck out. So, he’s finally learned how to use emojis then. Shouldn’t be endearing that someone younger than him has learned emoji speak so late in the game but – it is what it is. Pietro sighs.

_When do we leave?_

Harry hearts his message.

_In the morning. At dawn._

*

_Pietro would rather lobotomize himself than ever go to another gallery party and yet here he is, again, drinking overly-sweet punch and wishing his art would sell itself. As of now, his is one of the few paintings still left unbought, which is egging in his drinking. He walks over to stand next to it, because he’s kissed up to everyone here and he’s bored. Maybe getting into the arts was a mistake._

_By the time Nick Grimshaw arrives, Pietro is well and truly pissed. He looks, well, stunning, a prime specimen of gay manhood. Because Nick is a shit who has been inside of him several times, he gives Pietro a wink from across the room. The twink hanging off of his arm suggests that this is nothing other than a tease. He’s younger and sexier than Pietro is, famous in a way that he can’t quite place, and, judging from the look on his face, hideously, disgustingly in love with the man parading him around._

_In other words – the type of man Nick Grimshaw likes to eat alive. Pietro waves at him with a raised glass and a flick of his ring and little finger. Nick parts the small crowd that’s gathered around him and tugs his arm candy along for the ride. Arm Candy’s eyes fixate on Pietro’s painting in front of them and go soft in amazement. He unloops his arm from Nick’s and scurries closer to the painting to inspect it._

_“Pietro Rossi. You’ve really made it, eh?” Nick drawls, leaning against the wall. He’s not looking at Pietro while he says it so much as watching Arm Candy vibrate in the presence of art but that’s alright, that’s okay, that’s space to save face which is exactly what Pietro needs at this point in the showing._

_“I suppose you could say that,” says Pietro. He scuffs his trainer against the floor. “Not selling much, though.”_

_“Is everyone mad? It’s beautiful!” says Arm Candy, wide-eyed. He turns sharply towards Pietro, which causes a sprig of hair to burst free from his bandana and into his eyes. Arm Candy reaches his hand out to shake as he puts the curl back where it belongs._

_“Thanks,” says Pietro, shaking his hand._

_“You’re welcome. I’m Harry,” says Arm Candy, shaking back more firmly than Pietro would expect, considering. Nick watches the handshake with a smile, surely getting off a little on their meeting. Pervy bastard._

_“I’m Pietro,” he says._

_“Pietro,” Harry repeats, looking back at the painting. “How much to get that beautiful painting in my house?”_

_Pietro’s heart flips at the word ‘beautiful’ used for his painting._

_“Five thousand pounds,” he says._

_Harry nods, tapping his fingers against the wall._

_“Seven it is!” he exclaims. Pietro inhales a slow breath through his nose, willing his eyes to not well up in tears. He’s_ **_never_ ** _gotten seven for a painting before. Harry raises his glass to a cheer and Pietro clinks it for good fortune._

 _They slink into easy conversation after that. Harry has a slow, deep voice like melted chocolate, and he’s great at asking the right questions, so Nick barely has to grease the axle between them to keep the conversation going. In fact, after an hour passes, Nick starts to interject non-sequiturs into the flow of conversation as if they’re getting along a little_ **_too_ ** _well for his liking. Harry is flushed from drink and Nick’s obvious jealousy and their mutual youthfulness. He grabs a pen from his pocket, opens it with his teeth, and says, “Hold out your hand.”_

_Pietro extracts his hand from his pocket and holds it out. He wonders for a minute if Harry is just on autopilot, famous in the kind of way where people who look Pietro’s age (e.g. twelve) always want an autograph. Then, he sees that Harry is writing numbers. Next to the ten digits, Harry signs it “- H”_

_“My phone,” he says, capping the pen. “Get some use out of it, yeah?”_

_Pietro squeezes his hand shut and opens it wide, smudging the numbers a little. He gives a quizzical look out of the corner of his eye at Nick, who shrugs. Nick strolls behind Harry and squeezes his shoulder._

_“Being a bit of a tart with that number. Giving it away to people who aren’t even asking,” he says._

_“He would’ve asked,” says Harry confidently. Nick hmms into his hair, his eyes never leaving Pietro’s. Considering how he’s fucked every twink (and even some twunk bottoms) in London, Nick can be awfully territorial about his arm candy. The fact that he’s sold a painting_ **_and_ ** _Nick is viewing him as a threat when his date is_ **_that_ ** _fit, well -_

_Makes Pietro feel a bit invincible, if he’s being honest._

_“I’ll call,” he says without breaking eye contact with Nick. “I promise.”_


	2. Chapter 2

Harry picks him up at four sharp because he never learned how to be fashionably late. His car is an unobtrusive shade of grey, the kind he rides in when he doesn’t want to be seen. They lock eyes through the slit of Pietro’s blinds and Harry honks to make a point. He rolls down the window for good measure and sticks his hand out of it. The lace driving glove that waves at him makes Pietro feel a bit faint. 

Pietro grabs his roll-away suitcase and his rucksack and heads out the door. It’s the same shade of grey as Harry’s car, which should feel like less of a coincidence than it does. Harry clicks open the trunk with a button on his steering wheel. Then, he gets out of the car with his arms opened wide. A smile twitches under his oversized mustache.

“Pietro Rossi,” he says. “It’s been too long.”

His  _ friend _ engulfs him in a hug that’s too hot for July. Not that Pietro sniffs him  _ on purpose _ , but he can’t help but  _ notice _ that Harry smells sweet and floral with just a  _ hint _ of musk and sweat. When they break from the hug, Pietro’s neck is damp.  _ Fuck _ , it’s hot outside. How Harry is coping with wearing driving gloves in this weather, Pietro will never know.

Harry grabs the suitcase without asking and Pietro doesn’t protest because it’s useless. He gets in the passenger’s seat and buckles up. Flicking down his sun visor to block out the cresting sun reveals an already-red face. It’s the exact opposite of irresistible - one thousand percent  _ resistible _ if he does say so himself. The idea that anything might happen on this trip with  _ the  _ Harry Styles is simply absurd. 

Surely his wife thinks so, or she wouldn’t have agreed to this adventure.

“Big suitcase. Really packed prepared, eh?” says Harry, peeking into the car window. Pietro shrugs, feeling self-conscious about his hours preparing.

“You didn’t say how long we’d be gone,” he says. Harry’s brow furrows as he gets into the car. 

“I suppose you’re right. Sorry, time has gone a bit -” he waves his hand at the general  _ everything _ which, of course, Pietro understands. 

“It’s okay. I don’t have a schedule anymore either,” he says. Harry buckles his seatbelt and rubs his hand over his mustache and down his chin. He’s thinking and Pietro should ask what about but all he can stare at is -

“The mustache is new,” says Pietro. Harry’s eyes crinkle into a smile. He pulls the car in reverse.

“You like it?” he says. Pietro looks Harry up and down - his blue and white striped shirt, soft Gucci-emblazoned jeans, white vans with a pink lace. Harry’s hair is pushed out of his face in an effortless-looking way that must have taken an hour. The 70s ‘stache completes the look rather than taking anything away like it might with someone less fashion-forward.

“You look great. Probably thriving a bit too much for the climate,” says Pietro.

“Well,” says Harry, taking a sharp turn of the wheel as he backs onto the street. “We cope in the ways that we can.”

They head towards the fixed point of Switzerland, because Harry’s set his heart on more of an EU-oriented trek than a strictly Italian vacation. He’s rented a room for them in a condo just on the outskirts of Geneva that’s fancier than Pietro’s home. Pietro plays cool about it. As an artist with many patrons, he’s used to spending time around people richer than him. In fact, one  _ perk _ of the job is that his patrons tend to assume he has less money than them. They end up paying for the vacation and he goes home from France or Italy or Japan or wherever with no credit card debt. Truly, a gift.

Harry’s a big radio listener so Pietro spends a lot of time with his hand on the dial. It seems as though every twenty miles the radio goes to static. Every so often they stumble upon one of Harry’s songs. He allows Watermelon Sugar to play in full each time it comes on the radio. Harry sings along quietly the first time but belts unapologetically the second. It’s so cute that Pietro can hardly look at him while retaining his dignity.

The conversation flows just as easily as it always has. It’s been so long since they’ve seen each other and yet everything is exactly the same. Pietro tells jokes that aren’t funny and Harry laughs like they are. He doesn’t ask about anything deep but the conversation doesn’t feel shallow. This is how they’ve been since they were both closeted and young and heavy with new success. Now, well - 

They’re older, anyway.

He and Harry switch off driving duties every few hours so they can make it to Geneva that evening. Harry’s car is the nicest one he’s ever driven, turning corners as smooth as a knife through hot butter. At 11 and 3, Harry drifts into clean twenty-minute naps that leave him sharp and refreshed. His body is, as ever, a well-oiled machine.

Pietro tries to match Harry with two naps of his own and fails both times. Each time he closes his eyes, the car’s atmosphere descends into a thrilling asexual voyeurism. Harry watches him out of the corner of his eye as closely as a thickly-wooded area overrun with deer. Pietro is too ordinary for this gaze and yet - he stays watched. 

It shouldn’t cause his heart to pound madly, but it does.

Around 5 PM they finally pull into the condo where they’re going to stay. It’s even nicer than expected but Pietro doesn’t gawk. He grabs his rucksack and gets to the trunk of the car right when Harry does. Their hands meet when they grab for the handle. Pietro pulls away at the touch which Harry doesn’t acknowledge. He pulls out Pietro’s suitcase and hands it over. Pietro ensures that this time their hands don’t meet. Harry ruffles his hair and pulls it back over his head with a little smile.

“What do you think?” he says, obviously meaning the condo, Geneva’s outskirts, the still-bright evening - anything but Harry’s ringed fingers sweeping through his unruly hair.

“It’s beautiful,” says Pietro, looking resolutely forward. 

He means Switzerland. He really does.

*

_ He’s been texting Harry too often for someone he’s only met in person once. Over breakfast and over lunch; evenings and midnights. Tap, tap, tap back and forth with this enigmatic pop star who definitely doesn’t belong to him. _

_ (Once, when he brings this lack of ‘ownership’ up in jest, Harry sends - “I don’t belong to anyone ;P” which doesn’t put Pietro at ease at  _ **_all_ ** _.) _

_ Nick rings more frequently nowadays, as though he knows something is up. Pietro keeps his cards close to his chest. This shouldn’t feel like a competition - Harry doesn’t date long term, according to Nick. Still there’s a niggling, dangerous voice in Pietro’s mind that says, “He doesn’t date long term  _ **_yet_ ** _.”  _

_ By the time Nick tells him that Harry’s coming back to town, Pietro’s already known for a week. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slutrrrrryyyyyyy


End file.
